


Mistaken Identity

by Abagail_Snow



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Panem, Clones, Dubious Consent, F/M, Film Noir, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-06
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-28 14:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abagail_Snow/pseuds/Abagail_Snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Katniss finds a girl who looks just like her, she's drawn into a world she never wanted to know existed. Based on the show Orphan Black. AU Panem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mistaken Identity

It's dark when the freight train pulls into the station. My arms are tired and sore from holding tightly to the rungs. Usually when I hop trains like these, I crawl into cars that are low on cargo.

Trains from District 11 are full of fresh fruit and beds of soft cotton. It's nice to find a warm place to sleep when you can. When I'm going to the Capitol, I always try to catch a train from Eleven's track.

I didn't have that sort of luxury on this journey though. I had to get away. Fast. Running blindly through the dark woods until I heard the powerful cough of a combustion engine echoing through the trees.

The passenger trains that connect the districts of Panem are electric and nearly silent, but they don't have the capacity to carry 20,000 tons of cargo. They move impossibly fast too, 300 miles an hour, I think, only slowing when they come to a station. It wouldn't matter if I caught one anyway. There are six ticketing agents to each rail car, and they don't take kindly to stowaways. Especially defected runaways. One flash of my Identification Card and every alarm in Panem would trigger.

The freight trains are slow and loud, with only two crewmen to operate it. There are stretches where they can pick up quite a bit of speed, but through the mountains, where I came from, it only takes a brisk jog to keep in step with them.

The one I caught was from District 5, carrying tanks of fuel for some sort of power regulator, no doubt. The trains run off the coal from District 12, but everywhere else in Panem, the technology is far more advanced, relying on oil, or water, or chemical combustions I could never understand.

Tanks mean sealed compartments, which means you better be able to hold on tightly to the ladder rungs for the two day journey. The alternative is being sliced and diced beneath the sharp steel wheels, or if you're lucky, you take a long fall into one of the deep canyons the train glides through. I'm not sure which is the worst way to go, and I don't intend to find out.

When the train comes to a stop, just outside of the train yard, I stretch my leg out in search of the platform. It's pitch black along this length of track, but I've made this jump plenty of times before to do it with my eyes closed.

Right now the conductor is exchanging paperwork with the station agent, so that the track can be shifted to the right lane and the cargo can be properly distributed. Once the train passes that gate, a 20 foot fence will close behind it, and the only way out will be the same way in, which if this is the only type of supplies passing through, could be days.

I take a deep breath and leap into the darkness, my ankles buckling when they come in contact with the cement platform. I've been standing without rest for nearly two days now, and the neglected muscles in my legs scream in protest with every step.

I stumble into a steel support beam and cling to it desperately. My head is foggy and my eyelids are too heavy to keep open. My thirst is palpable, the dryness in my throat making it difficult to swallow. I'm almost there. Only a mile more and I'll be at Finnick's, where I'll have more food than I'll know what to do with.

I take comfort in these thoughts as I climb the steps to the main station. Outside, it's brighter than day beneath the Capitol skyline. The light burns my eyes, and I feel disoriented in the shuffle of people as they board a passenger train that will take them to the outer districts. At top speed, they'll pull into District 12 as the sun is rising. Then they'll spend the week hidden behind the doors of the Justice Building, where they'll shuffle permits and print out Identification Cards, praying for the day they can escape that awful place and return to the luxuries of the Capitol.

I stay behind, watching it as it zips away on a shallow track. I'm never going back there.

I'm alone again, I think, until I spot a woman at the far end of the station. Her hair is dark, like mine, and knotted loosely at the nape of her neck. She slips off her shoes, keeping her back to me, and places them neatly beside her satchel and a white paper bag. Next, she removes her jacket and lays it gently across her things.

The overhead speakers announce another train's arrival in thirty seconds.

She looks at me then. Her gray eyes set deeply in her gaunt face. But it's not her face. It's mine. I blink a few times to clear the exhaustion from my tired mind, but when I open my eyes, again, it's as if I'm staring into a mirror.

Same height, same build, same thin lips, sharp cheekbones, and angled nose, and although her skin has taken a ghostly pallor, it's still, undeniably, the same olive tone as mine.

The woman does not seem fazed by our resemblance. She only looks at me vacantly, our eyes locking in an unspoken spell. I'm too paralyzed to speak, and even if I could, I don't know what I would say. There are thousands of people in Panem, surely the odds wouldn't be impossible for two people to look the same.

It's not until the woman steps off the platform and onto the track that I begin to panic. The hum of the approaching train is getting louder. Even if they tried to stop now, the screeching breaks would still slice her in two.

It all happens so fast. The woman laying across the track, the lights of the train filling the station, and then she's gone, hidden beneath the ten ton beast as if she were never there.

The train comes to a halt and the conductor hurries frantically onto the platform. Any second, a fleet of Peacekeepers will come rushing down the staircase to investigate the scene. One that I can not be a part of.

I begin to run, but it's not towards the exit, as I initially intended. Instead I'm crouched over the woman's things, wrapping her coat around my shoulders, and tucking her bags beneath my arm. I take her shoes too, even though they're impractical heels and then I'm walking away, briskly, with my head bowed, only stopping when I reach Finnick's door.

I can't shake the image of the woman's face and how similar it was to mine. I need to understand why.

* * *

"What are you doing here?" Finnick says flatly. It's obvious he isn't surprised to see me. I don't visit the Capitol frequently, but it's often enough for Finnick to expect my periodic presence.

He lives on the outskirts of the city, as most of the transplants do. Although his face is on half the billboards in Panem, Finnick Odair isn't Capitol born. He's from District 4, which means they'll exploit him for all he's worth, but he'll never be one of them. We all know our place. That's why I left.

He steps aside to allow me to enter. "New coat?" he says.

I pull away the dead woman's jacket and drop it to the floor as if it were burning me. Her shoes land next in the chaotic heap, a stark contrast to how meticulously she had arranged them before her death.

"I'm here to see Prim," I say. I move to the kitchen table to set the satchel down. The white paper bag she left behind is printed with the words MELLARK'S BAKERY, and when I unroll it, I discover half a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread.

My mouth waters instantly, and I pull the bag closer to my nose to devour the sweet scent. I'm starving, and the dead woman certainly won't miss it, as awful as my logic sounds.

"Good luck getting past Abernathy," Finnick says. He swats the paper bag out of my hands and removes the loaf. "It's his tongue as much as yours if they find out he's been letting a runaway in."

"Yours too," I say. I put Finnick in just as much danger when I rely on him for a place to stay.

"My tongue's too pretty," he says. He places the bread on the counter and begins to slice it.

My eyes wander to the satchel on the table. It doesn't look Captiol made, but I don't recognize the textiles either. Most districts don't have the material for these types of luxuries, and make do with what they have. This looks to be seat upholstery. Probably from District 6 where they make trains and hovercrafts.

I push open the flap and lift the edge enough to peer inside. My fingers find her Identification Card first, and I slip it onto the table, out of Finnick's view.

Marlene Childs, District 6. Her birthday is May 22, only two weeks after mine. She turned 19 a few days ago, and now she's dead.

"What's wrong with you?"

Finnick extends a slice of bread to me and I eat it quickly. For a brief second I allow myself to savor the exquisite flavor without guilt. I finish a second slice.

"I saw a woman kill herself today," I tell him. His face tenses with worry and he reaches out to comfort me. "She looked exactly like me."

"What?"

I press the Identification Card into his hand. "Is this a fake?" he says after holding it to the light. Panem Identifiation Cards, PICs, are stamped with holographic emblems that are nearly impossible to recreate, and include an encrypted barcode for Peacekeepers to scan. If you don't match the person on file to the letter, you're as good as dead.

His eyes dart between my face and the picture on the card, an amused, contemplative grin slanting his lips. "That's impressive. Really. Stupid, but impressive."

"It's real," I say. There's a slip of paper in the front pocket of the bag and I unfold it. "And so is this Capitol Visa," I say, waving it at Finnick. "It was renewed yesterday by some doctor."

"Aurelius," Finnick sounds out the syllables like there are marbles in his mouth. "Six weeks for a psych eval." He drops the paper onto the table. "Jesus, Katniss. She killed herself? Right in front of you?"

There's a half empty vile of clear liquid, reading MORPHLING up the side. The syringe that accompanies it looks used.

"Laid right on the tracks."

Finnick's concern is brief. He flips the bag open then quickly closes it, shaking his head in disbelief. "And you took her things? What's wrong with you?"

I snatch the PIC back and hold it closely to his face. "Look at her, Finnick. A resemblance like that isn't a coincidence."

"Are you suggesting some sort of conspiracy?"

I don't want to think like that. The Capitol uses all sorts of strange pseudosciences, but what does that have to do with me? They're too busy creating poisonous wasps and birds that sing secrets. There's nothing special about me. I've been missing for three years now, and as far as I know, nobody's been looking.

I pull out my own PIC and tilt it beneath the dim kitchen light. The Panem emblem appears, flashing red, an immediate indicator of a a defective citizen. Marlene's still flashes blue.

"Katniss," Finnick says, distracting me from my thoughts. His voice is tense with worry, and when I meet his eye, it's obvious he knows what I'm considering.

"This could be my ticket, Finn. My chance to start over."

"In District 6? Where you'll be in six weeks, constructing engine parts until the end of time. What are you thinking? She's probably got a family, you know. People who will notice she's been replaced by an imposter."

At the bottom of Marlene's bag, tucked beneath a hole in the lining, I uncover a roll of Capitol Credits. I leaf through them by the corner, watching the numbers 50 and 100 flash by.

"I won't go back to District 6," I say. "I just need a few days. Enough time to get Prim." I hand Finnick the money. "And whatever else she has lying around."

Living outside the fence isn't easy, but when you have enough to bargain with, it's not so tough to get by. The Capitol may be crawling with surveillance and Peacekeepers, but no one pays much attention to the districts. I could slip in and out of the fence undetected, and with enough Capitol Credits, Prim and I could almost live comfortably.

"One problem," Finnick says, snapping me back to reality. "Any minute they're going to untangle this Marlene girl from the wheels of that train car, and her deactivated PIC card will be more worthless than your defected one."

I tap her PIC against my chin. Marlene Childs is the only girl with my face who is supposed to be in the Capitol. Of course they'd identify her in a second, when they scan the records. The emblem on her ID still flashes blue when I trigger it, meaning they haven't identified her yet.

"What if it's Katniss Everdeen under there?"

"You can't be serious."

"Think about it," I say. "A defect hopping trains accidentally gets tangled in the tracks. Stranger things have happened."

"Marlene's name will come up long before yours does," he argues.

"Not if they find my PIC card by the body."

Finnick is adamant in his opposition to my plan, and he backs away from the table, shaking his head incredulously.

"Besides," I say. "When they go to Marlene's apartment, they'll find her, alive."

"As in you?" he scoffs. He swipes my PIC from the table and waves it in my face. "And how's this going to appear at the scene exactly?"

Finnick's participation is crucial to making this plan work. "If you make the drop, Finn, I'll be in your debt forever. You know what that's worth."

His sigh is tired as he pockets the PIC. He walks towards the door in three quick strides and slips on his coat. "You better hurry if you want to beat the detectives," he says.

* * *

My ankles wobble on Marlene's narrow heels, but the shoe is a perfect fit. I walk briskly up the cracked sidewalk, glancing occasionally at street signs to make sure I'm on the right path. Marlene's a transplant, like Finnick, and her apartment is only a few blocks away, still on the outskirts of town.

I find her building and match the numbers to the address on her Capitol visa. It's tall, with 12 stories of windows when I count each row, and a tarnished steel facade that isn't polished like the rest of the Capitol. The building is identical to Finnick's, except for maybe the metal it's made of. It's hard to tell, since both are so unkempt they look nearly black. I flash her PIC one last time before opening the door, sighing with relief when it still flickers blue.

There aren't any steps, and I take a creaking elevator to the sixth floor, where she lives. The door is locked, but it gives easily when I slip in the key.

"Hello?" I call into the darkened room. When nobody answers, I flip on the lights.

The apartment is laid out the same as Finnick's with a kitchen that opens into the living room and a short hallway that leads to a bedroom and bathroom, the only difference is that hers is kept meticulously organized.

The wall in the living room is inlaid with digital frames that change pictures every few seconds. I watch, mesmerized, as different images of my face flash before me. I stand beside a finished hovercraft, then beside a family that doesn't look like me, and finally with a man with ashen skin and a mop of blonde curls, the same color as Prim's. I wonder if he'll miss Marlene when he learns she's gone. They're both smiling, yet even with his arm is draped across her shoulder, there seems to be a thousand miles separating them.

The image flashes away and I continue my exploration. The bathroom vanity is cleared of everything but a pair of toothbrushes, and the cabinet behind the mirror has a neat line of pill bottles with color coding. I don't recognize the names of the drugs, but they all have Marlene's name on the labels.

In the bedroom, I pull open the drawers to her bedside table. I find another two rolls of Capitol Credits inside, but more importantly there's a Peacekeeper issued handgun and a small tablet that fits in my palm. I place the gun on the mattress and tap on the tablet screen.

It lights up to a list of names, which I scroll through.

_District 1: Cashmere, May 21_

_District 2: Enobaria, May 9_

_District 3: Wiress, May 15_

_District 4: Annie, May 12_

I keep scrolling past District 6, Marlene down to District 12, which is blank.

The tablet buzzes with an incoming message: WHERE ARE YOU?

I power off the screen and quickly throw it onto the mattress.

I open the set of doors that lead to the closet and an overhead light automatically clicks on, illuminating two walls filled with hangers. I've only combed through three freshly pressed shirts when I realize that half of these are men's clothes. If she lives with someone, they could be home at any second, and I'll be as good as caught.

My pace turns frantic, and I push aside the hangers with abandon. A chip the size of my thumb nail falls to my feet from a mixture of coats, some men's and some women's, I can't tell where it came from. I pocket it anyway.

Throwing Marlene's satchel onto the bed, I hastily begin to load it with my take. I'm considering ransacking the kitchen when I hear the door click open.

"Marly?"

"Shit," I mutter under my breath, throwing the bag to the floor. The clothes I'm wearing are soiled by days of wear and completely dissimilar to what's hanging in her closet. I rip my sweater over my head and push my trousers from my hips, before kicking them beneath the bed. Next, I untangle my hair from its braid and twist it sloppily into the bun that Marlene wore. I can't remember is she was wearing makeup, but I run to the bathroom and splash water on my face until it looks freshly cleaned.

"Marlene?" The blond man from the photo appears in the doorway.

I realize I don't know his name. "Hey!" I say, as brightly as I can muster.

He looks at me curiously and nods curtly. "You're still up?" he says.

"I couldn't sleep," I say. It must be nearly 2AM by now.

"Did you take your meds?"

I remember the line of pills in the medicine cabinet. I wouldn't know which one to take. "No," I say. "I'm trying to do without them." He doesn't seem convinced. "Doctor Aurelius suggested it."

"Your appointment went well then?" He says, leaning his shoulder against the door frame.

"He wants to observe me for another six weeks," I say, glancing at him through the vanity mirror. I debate brushing my teeth to appear at ease, but I'm not sure which toothbrush is mine.

"I'll get my Visa renewed then," he says. I catch his eyes dipping to my undergarments and wonder if he's scrutinizing the details of my body he doesn't recognize. I wrap myself in the robe that hangs on the back of the door.

"You don't have to stay," I say quickly, brushing past him to move to the kitchen. I open three cabinets before I find a glass and I fill it with water. "You can go home, if you want to."

"Did Doctor Aurelius suggest that too?" He stands on the other side of the kitchen island and watches me finish my water in two large gulps.

I nod slowly, hiding most of my face behind the mouth of the glass. The blond man's smile isn't friendly and he shakes his head disapprovingly. My body tenses under his knowing stare. "Let me see your arms," he says.

"Why?" I brace myself as he rounds the kitchen island, clinging desperately to the sleeves of my robe so he can't inspect my skin.

"Let me see," he demands. He corners me against the counter and pushes the material away. His thumb brushes up and down the inside of my arm and he looks at me with narrowed eyes. "Where are the track marks?" he says.

I remember the Morphling in Marlene's purse with the used syringe. My skin has plenty of flaws, but none resemble needle marks.

"I had them erased," I say tightly. "It's a part of the therapy. The only way I'll get a clean start."

His eyebrows knot together as he considers my story. He doesn't believe me, I can tell. "I found the stuff in your bag this morning," he admits.

I cup his cheek in my hand and force him to look at me. It's too intimate of a gesture and I feel taken aback by it, but I can't let it show, or I'll blow my cover. "I'm not using," I say.

I'm afraid he'll ask more questions, and I don't want him to, so I do the only thing I know will make him quiet. I kiss him. I intend for it to be brief. A peace offering to drop the subject until the morning, when I've had the time to wrap my mind around it all, and a chance to work out an escape plan.

But then I feel his jaw slacken, and his tongue against the seam of my mouth. I tilt my head back to deepen the kiss, my body thrumming with an unexpected urgency. I want to feel the heat of this stranger's touch. To cling to his unwavering sturdiness. His hands grip my hips, pinning me to the counter, and he hitches my leg high around his waist to cradle himself between my thighs. I gasp when I feel him hardening against my center.

"We should stop," I say weakly, before things go too far.

"We should," he agrees, but then I'm sitting on the counter and he's tipping my head to the side to drag his lips against my throat. His hand moves to massage my breast through the thin silk robe, and I moan when he rolls my hardened nipple between his fingers.

My mind is a mess, unable to escape the delicious feel of his lips on my neck, and the place where our bodies connect when he thrusts between my legs.

"I'm not myself," I manage to say between heavy breaths. He unties the belt holding my robe closed and pushes it open. My body keens, back arching, when his fingers dip into my underwear.

"We're going to be okay," he says.

I don't understand what he means, but I don't stop him when he peels my underwear down my legs, or when he drops his trousers and undershorts. I open my legs eagerly when he pushes into me, letting out a cry as he stretches and fills me completely. His thrusts are frantic and I reach for the cabinet behind my head to anchor myself in place.

My legs tighten around him to drive him deeper, but the position ins't right. I struggle to angle my hips, and sensing this, he lifts me from the counter, spinning clumsily to push my back against the cool, steel refrigerator door.

"Fuck," he growls, his thrusts pushing me higher and higher up the door. His mouth finds my breast and he lavishes it through the thin cotton of my under clothes. His teeth tightening around my nipple until I scream.

I can feel his cock pulse as he empties inside me, and my walls instinctively tighten to coax his orgasm. He lowers me so my feet touch the ground, and I grasp his broad shoulders to keep my knees from buckling.

"Sorry, I got a bit carried away," he says sheepishly, withdrawing his softening cock.

My legs are still trembling, and I can feel the aftereffects dripping down my thigh. We didn't use protection. "It's okay," I say. "I'll take something in the morning."

"What?" he says, his eyes dark, lids heavy, as he looks into mine imploringly.

Before I can answer there's a heavy knock on the door. He groans, pulling up his pants and buckling his belt before he answers.

"Peeta Mellark?" the man on the other side of the door says.

"Peeta," I test the name on my tongue, committing it to memory.

"That's me," he says tiredly.

"We have some questions about Marlene Childs."

He opens the door wide, revealing a detective flanked by two Peacekeepers. "Can you ask her yourself?"

The detective looks surprised to see me, as if he's looking at a ghost. He must have come from the scene. He clears his throat to speak. "I'm Detective Crane," he says acknowledging me and then Peeta quickly. "Do you have your PIC, ma'am?"

I nod shortly, wrapping my robe tightly around me as I slip into the bedroom. I pick up the satchel to retrieve Marlene's PIC, the emblem flashes yellow. Under investigation. I eye the window, wondering if I can make a quick escape, but the pane is sealed. It doesn't matter anyway, I came here to prove that Katniss Everdeen was dead. This was the way to put that final nail in the coffin.

I return to the kitchen, extending Marlene's PIC to the detective. He looks at the picture then back at my face. "Run a retina," he tells one of the Peacekeepers beside him.

My spine tenses and I catch myself on the counter top before I can fall. We may share the same face, but I don't know where the similarities end. Certainly our retina scans won't match.

"What's the problem?" Peeta steps in. "We've got Visas, we're allowed to be here. You can look at them if you'd like."

"It's not that," Crane says. He holds the retina scanner to my eye and it beeps before I can blink or look away. He stares at the display, his frown deepening. "Looks like a case of mistaken identity," he says, still reading the screen. He pushes the scanner back into the Peacekeepers hands. "Reset her PIC, will you?"

He swipes my ID through a scanner and when he returns it, the emblem flashes blue again.

"Sorry to bother you, Miss Childs," he says, then walks briskly towards the door.

"Wait," Peeta chases after them. "Not until you explain what's going on. You can't just burst in here, in the middle of the night. We have rights, you know."

"Peeta, let it go," I say, grabbing onto his hand. Crane and the Peacekeepers close the door behind them, leaving us alone.

Peeta turns to me, his eyes wild and angry. It's obvious he won't calm down until he has answers, and the truth certainly isn't a possibility "It was a drug test," I lie. "They told me this would happen."

"Through a retina?"

I nod somberly, even though the idea is ridiculous. "I passed." I squeeze his hand. "I told you, I'm getting better. It's okay for you to go home. It'll be good for you."

He studies me carefully. "We'll talk about it in the morning," he says, his hand slipping from mine as he heads to the bedroom.

I stand in the kitchen, flipping Marlene's PIC in my hands. If I want to pull this off, I need Peeta out of the way. I look at Marlene's picture, the question I don't want the answer to, still gnawing at the back of my mind. If we're two different people, how are our retinas the same?

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at absnow


End file.
